by Chris Fabry
“I think this is what I miss most,” my mother said behind me. Her voice startled me and guilt rose that wasn’t from her for once. She put a hand on my shoulder, her eyes on the desk. “Just seeing him sit there and work. He was always busy. His mind was always going, always trying to figure something out.”
I moved away from the hammock and picked up one of the photo albums stacked beside the desk. Old photos of my parents. My mother’s gap-toothed smile. She and my father on a date. My skinny, lanky dad down on one knee. A blurry photo of the two of them offering each other wedding cake. Then language school and a period of empty years skipped over before they finally had pictures of my mother pregnant, then me on a blanket, pudgy and drooling.
“I remember this airstrip,” I said, pointing to a photo. “I remember the sound of the plane getting close and how we’d run out and wave. I remember you humming hymns and me trying to come up with the words.”
“So you do have some good memories?”
I let the jab go. “If I close my eyes, I can see him at his workbench. It was the only thing he ever really did for himself, wasn’t it?”
“Even that work wasn’t for him. He made things for others. It’s what made him happiest. If he wasn’t translating or editing, he was fixing someone’s roof.” She picked up a block of wood. “But the pens were his favorite.”
“I still have mine.” I pulled it from my pocket and showed her. “My name is almost rubbed out, but you can still see the P and the g.”
She took it from me and smiled. “You sat with him and watched by candlelight. He would tell me how he loved watching you as your eyes got heavy and then he would carry you to bed and read you a story as you drifted off.”
I stared at the pen, almost too afraid to say what I was thinking. “Deep in the night, I can still hear his voice. Echoes of his whispered prayers over me.”
“Thank you, loving Father, for our Paige. Write your Word on her heart. You say in your Word that you store up success for the upright. Pour out your love on her and through her.”
Mom skirted what I’d said. “He always said these pens were gifts that returned to the giver. He’d send them to supporters with a note.” She said it sadly as if I didn’t use the pen enough, as if I had forever missed a chance with my father. “The thing he never got to do was make toys for the grandkids. Blocks. A train. He talked about it. What it would be like to have children here. I guess that’s never going to happen.”
“You mean because of his condition or because I’m not having children?”
“I’m not blaming you. This is no one’s fault. It’s just . . . I guess it’s God’s will we’re dealing with, isn’t it?”
God’s will. There was a topic of discussion that would probably tear us apart. “Dad always said it was the safest place you could be, didn’t he?”
She nodded, looking at their wedding photo on the desk, her weathered fingers tracing the outline of his face through the gathered dust. “There was a witch doctor who tried to cast a spell on us. Did you know that?”
“I vaguely recall something about it.”
“Your father told that story when we were on furlough, speaking at churches. He said he felt he was safer in some ways than those in quiet, suburban homes with picket fences. Our whole family was safer in the middle of God’s will than anywhere else on the planet.”
“How did you know it was God’s will, Mom? To leave? To marry Dad?”
“I don’t think it’s some mysterious thing. It’s not like he’s trying to hide it. God presents his will in unlikely ways. Unlikely opportunities we have to obey or not. So it’s my job to not get discouraged about the small thing I must do today. My job is to trust.”
“What if you can’t? In the middle of your husband wandering off or pushing you?”
“Some women have husbands who walk away and exchange them for a newer model. My husband is drifting away a little at a time, and it’s nothing he’s chosen. He’s fighting. He doesn’t want to go. I think that’s why he gets angry. But I don’t know how it all works together, Paige. I’ve given up trying to understand the whys. You, for example. Why God let that happen. Why you had to go through so much pain.”
“I made a mistake. Disobedience has consequences.” I sighed. “Maybe we shouldn’t have tried to hide it. Maybe I should have kept my daughter.”
She put the picture down. “We did the best we could.”
I stood with the silence between us, willing the words to come. “You would be proud of her, Mom.”
“Let’s not talk about this right now,” she said.
I reached out for her arm, forgetting it was the bruised one. She recoiled in pain and I apologized. “We’ve never really talked about this. I think it would help me.”
“Help you? How could it possibly make any difference after all these years?” She looked out the window, still holding the pen. “If you tell her who you are, you have to tell her about her father. You have to explain what happened. Which will lead to more questions.”
“It will lead her to the truth.”
“What truth?
“About herself. About how she came into the world.”
“It will destroy his parents and what they thought, what they believed about his memory.”
“Mom, they have a granddaughter they don’t even know.”
“You have no right to tarnish those people’s lives. He got what he wanted. He didn’t come back for you.”
“He wrote me.”
“Paige, let it go. There is nothing but pain ahead if you keep following this trail. For you. For all of us.”
I looked out the same window and unexpected tears came to my eyes. “I was on the plane today and thought about myself as a scared seventeen-year-old. I see students at school in the throes of some first love experience or watch a film with some young actress the same age I was, and this sadness and loss comes over me. About who I was. How alone I was. And we could never talk.”
“What’s to talk about?”
I opened my mouth, searching for words, but they wouldn’t come and I regretted bringing the whole thing up at such a time.
The doorbell rang. She looked at the floor, concentrating on each step as she moved to talk with the man installing the security system. He listened to her tell the story of my father, where he was, what medication he was on, his doctor’s name, all the tiny aspects of his life she held in her mind because my father couldn’t.
“Mom, he just needs to know where to put the alarm.”
“Oh, I don’t mind,” the man said, but he was clearly grateful I had intervened.
I stayed with them as he explained the unit, what it was designed to do and what she would hear if the door was opened. “You’ll hear this if he tries to go outside. That’ll give you a warning and you can be ready.”
I finally left them alone and wandered upstairs again, a thousand thoughts coursing through my mind. Surrounded by the faces of the past, I crawled into the hammock and went to sleep.
CHAPTER 17
Treha
Treha searched the trash bins as well as she could but had to hurry to class. Before dinner she put on her janitorial uniform, even though she wasn’t on duty, and went to the Dumpsters outside her dorm, pawing through the bags. She didn’t have gloves, so she used plastic shopping bags to keep from getting her hands wet.
She could have sworn she put the card in the trash by her desk. . . .
Why had she thrown it away? If only she hadn’t. She should have seen the truth about Cameron and simply let him go.
She sat on the heap, thinking that this was where desire led. You want a boyfriend, you wind up getting your heart ripped open and you have to look through other people’s trash.
Her heart fluttered when she saw a white bag with the familiar logo of the convenience store. Inside were the salad and apple. The receipt was also there, but no card.
On the way back inside, she met Anna coming from the library.
�
��Just the person I wanted to see,” Anna said. “Didn’t you get my messages? Have you been avoiding me?”
“I’ve been busy.”
Anna frowned. “Too busy to write a column? My editor is still asking about you, Treha.”
“I don’t have anything to write about.”
“I doubt that’s true. There’s probably something rolling around that brain. Some observation from the Treha treasure trove.”
“It’s more like Treha’s trash.”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing.” But the words gave her an idea. “When do you need it?”
“Tomorrow. Today would be better.” Anna followed her. “So how’s your love life?”
“What do you mean?”
“Somebody said you and Cameron were at the convenience store and he bought your dinner. Then I heard you two were sitting in the commons early this morning. I’d say that’s the start of a beautiful relationship.”
Treha stared at her. “How do you know all this?”
“That’s part of being a reporter. You develop good sources that will tell you everything you need to know. So what’s going on? Has he kissed you? Have you exchanged life verses? That’s almost better than an engagement ring around here.”
Treha took a deep breath. “He’s not interested in me. He’s interested in someone else.”
“He told you that?”
Treha nodded.
“Then why would he spend time with you?”
“I need to clean up and work on the column. Okay?”
“Wait—”
“I don’t want to become one of your sources.”
Anna looked hurt. “I wouldn’t share this with anybody. You can trust me.”
“I need to go.”
“All right, but if you want to talk about the Cameron thing, I’m here.”
Treha didn’t answer, but she heard real compassion in Anna’s voice. She went back to her room. Shelly was there with a friend and they both stopped talking when she entered, so Treha grabbed her clothes and cleaned up in the bathroom, then moved to the lounge and sat on a love seat and pulled out her spiral notebook. Ms. Redwine said writing could help you process your life, but Treha wondered if that worked with the TV blaring and girls playing Taboo, laughing and giggling.
As soon as she put her pen to the page, something happened. Ideas and thoughts and words spilled like someone was pushing them out of her.
Last year I was working at a retirement home when the director got a frantic call from a man we both knew, one of the few people at the home who still had their driving privileges. He was stranded in a parking lot with temperatures nearing 100 degrees, a dangerous place for anyone, but especially the elderly. He couldn’t find his car keys.
My friend told him to get to a cool place and wait. She and I drove to the parking lot and found him at a grocery store. The keys were not in his car—he had locked it, so he knew he had them with him when he left. He had eaten a sub sandwich, then visited a bookstore and finally bought groceries.
We asked at all three stores but no one had turned in the missing keys. We walked the sidewalk, went up and down all the aisles in the bookstore and grocery store, looked underneath the car and around it. The longer we looked, the more clear it became that our last option was the worst one. I went back to the restaurant and pulled the plastic trash bag out of the container near the front of the store. We took the bag to the Dumpster and lifted out each wrapper and uneaten piece of sandwich one by one. The old man protested and said he would never have thrown his keys away. It was silly for us to look here, he said, but I kept going, kept looking through the napkins and half-filled soda cups and leftovers. Bread and peppers and onions and tomatoes.
The longer I worked, the hotter it became. I wanted to give up, but something inside said not to. You should have seen his face when I shook out a yellow wrapper and his keys dropped to the pavement. It was one of the best sounds I’ve ever heard. He looked at me with gratitude, but the worry on his face overwhelmed us all.
Going through that trash wasn’t easy, but I learned a lot that day.
Sometimes you have to deal with other people’s trash. Sometimes, in order to love them, you have to dig through the unpleasant stuff and sort out the good from the bad. You have to get dirty.
Treha looked up and saw the resident adviser standing behind her, looking at what she was writing. Jill had been kind to her from the first day but hadn’t spoken that much afterward.
“Treha, would you mind coming with me?”
“Why?”
“You’ll see.”
Treha closed the notebook and followed Jill. The RA’s room was bigger and Treha wished she could have a place to herself like this. She was startled to see Shelly in the room. The look on her face was not kind, but when was it ever?
“Did I do something wrong?” Treha said.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” Jill said.
Treha looked at Shelly. “I’ll stand.”
“Treha, we’ve found something disturbing. I’m hoping you could help us understand.”
Shelly held out the card and ripped envelope. “You either opened my mail or it’s worse than that.”
Treha took the card from her, trying to think what “worse than that” could mean.
“Did you open this?” Jill said. “Did you open Shelly’s mail?”
Treha nodded.
“She admitted it,” Shelly said. “Case closed.”
“Did you have anything to do with writing it?” Jill said.
“No.”
“Why did you open it?”
“I have a friend . . . he asked me to give this to Shelly. He has a crush on her.”
“Who?” Shelly said.
Treha ignored the girl and kept looking at Jill.
“Shelly, let me have a few minutes alone with Treha.”
“I can’t believe this,” Shelly said. “She’s caught red-handed and you don’t do a thing.”
“Shelly, please.”
Shelly got up and stomped out of the room and slammed the door.
“Okay, now will you sit?”
Treha nodded and took the seat Shelly had vacated.
“Tell me what happened.”
Without revealing the writer of the card, Treha told Jill the story. How she had a crush on this particular guy and the guy wanted her to reach out to Shelly. “I was so angry with him, I threw it away instead of giving it to her. But I changed my mind and came back for it. But it was gone.”
“Does he know you threw it away?”
“I talked with him this morning. He asked me to return the card because he’d changed his mind about reaching out to Shelly.”
“Smart guy,” Jill said.
Treha looked up and saw Jill’s grin.
“What was she doing going through my trash can?” Treha said.
“You have a point. But Shelly said she saw her name on the envelope as she passed your desk. She said she wasn’t snooping.”
“And you believe her?”
“I don’t think it matters. I was trying to keep you two together because, in some weird way, I thought you’d be a good influence on her. Maybe I should have separated you from the start.”
“I’m okay with getting a new roommate.”
Jill nodded. “The problem is, she’s already taken this above me. They’re going to want answers.”
“For an envelope and card? He’s said he doesn’t want her to see it.”
“But she has. And taking other people’s personal property is a serious deal; you know that.”
Treha looked at the floor.
“It would help to have the guy who wrote the card come forward. Does he know you opened it and read it?”
“No.”
“Okay. Do you think you can convince him to tell us the truth and clear this up?”
“I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone who he is.”
Jill bit the inside of her cheek. “Why don’t you
try, Treha? I’ll try to keep the Shelly train in the station. But we need him to confirm your story.”
CHAPTER 18
Paige
We brought my father home Wednesday afternoon. We got him into a wheelchair and his head bobbed and weaved like a prizefighter as I pushed him up the incline from the garage into the house. When he was inside the kitchen, I hugged him and whispered in his ear, “We’re so glad you’re home, Dad.”
I pulled back and looked him in the eyes but he wasn’t there. My mother helped him into his favorite chair and we went on with life, the food, the news cycle, the daily duties. Mom began telling stories of his behavior in the past months that she couldn’t on the first night. “If we lived in some colder climate, we wouldn’t have him anymore, Paige. He woke me up a few weeks ago and said, ‘So this is where you are!’ It was three in the morning. And his feet were all muddy from walking around outside in the sprinkler trying to find me.”
“We should have gotten you help then,” I said.
“That’s easy to say looking back, but I thought he was going through a phase. I started locking the front door and sleeping on the couch in the living room, hoping to head him off at the pass. Everything was fine for a while, and then early one morning I heard a crash. Scared me half to death. I thought we were being robbed. I walked into the pantry and found him on the floor with all sorts of ketchup and syrup and pickle bottles broken around him. I asked what he was doing in there and he said he was looking for the Christmas present he had hidden for you. Paige, he thought he was back in the jungle and that you were a little girl.”
